


The River, Overflowing

by cardwrecks



Series: Kissing Death [2]
Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood, Guns, M/M, Medical Torture, Nightmares, Self-Harm, Stalking, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, cosmic horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-19 00:21:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9409064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardwrecks/pseuds/cardwrecks
Summary: You're not sure when it started. You're always vaguely nauseous, but this is different. You haven't had it this bad since you started walking.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is Pickle Inspector's version of events.

Ace Dick once told you that you have a habit of being in the wrong place at the right time. You're not entirely sure what he meant by that, but you're pretty sure he's right. More than once you've entered a store as it was being held up, only to accidentally trip a robber on the way out, fall on top of them, and flail uselessly until the police arrived.

 

To be exact, it's happened twice.

 

Maybe Midnight City is full of clumsy robbers, but the common denominator is you. And you know very well how clumsy you can be.

 

Your name is Pickle Inspector, and you are in a lot of trouble.

 

* * *

 

You're not sure when it was, exactly, when Diamonds Droog realized you exist. You remember precisely the first time you saw him, because he didn't even introduce himself before ramming you in the face with a pool cue. He didn't need to introduce himself. He's Diamonds Droog. Everyone knows the Midnight Crew. They're the ones that built this town.

 

Everything a person could be interested in, they put there first. It's a shining city on a graveyard. Occasionally they hold elections, but it doesn't mean anything. No matter who wears the mayoral sash, it's still Slick and his boys with the keys to the city.

 

You do your best to avoid them. Or, you _did._ Now Diamonds Droog is following you, and you have no idea what to do about it.

 

You're pretty sure it's not about Problem Sleuth anymore. Maybe it never was. Either way, ever since threatening Sleuth/you, Diamonds Droog has been a grim shadow just around the corner. Sometimes you see the polished black of his car a few blocks in front of you. Other times, you see his hands holding a book in a cafe across the street. Mostly, it's just the sense of _eyes_.

 

You hate to be looked at. You hate it more than almost anything else. And there's a lot of things you hate.

 

You hate the way food feels in your mouth. You hate the stiff, splayed bristles of an old toothbrush. You hate that you have a physical body, with needs and dimension. You hate replacing broken things. You hate being naked. You hate being underwater. You hate the itchy tags on the insides of shirts. Your hate is endless droning in the back of your mind, familiar enough to be your own reflection. Just about the only things you don't hate are tea, puzzles, candy, and your friends.

 

Speaking of your friends, Ace Dick and Problem Sleuth are fighting again. You're pretty sure it's about Slick this time, but it could honestly be about anything. They like to fight. It's how they communicate. Terribly hardboiled. You filter them out to focus on your work, and before long, you don't even hear them anymore. 

 

You're sitting at your desk, shoes off (always off at your desk, it's more comfortable), looking for a certain file on the floor when you feel _those eyes again._ You don't react. Maybe if you pretend you don't feel it, the feeling will go away.

 

It doesn't. If anything, it manifests itself into a whiff of cigarette smoke. You hate cigarettes.

 

He's standing at your door.

 

You look up, and Diamonds Droog is watching you with an unreadable expression. You suppose you knew this was going to happen, eventually. You just very much hoped it wouldn't.

 

“H-hello,” you greet him, because if he's going to murder you, you're going to be the most polite corpse he's ever made.

 

“Hello.” He repeats, closing the door behind himself. He stalks over to your desk and you lean back into your chair, as if that will create a little distance between you.

 

He just keeps coming until he's resting his butt on your desk, examining his nails. They are perfectly kept, much like everything else about him. His slate skin is flawless, his suit is immaculately tailored, even his homburg hat at the optimal angle. You can see from here that his hair has a streak of white at the temples. He looks like an ad for a fancy perfume.

 

“You're going to tell me everything.” He says.

 

“...I ...w-what?” You have no idea what he's talking about, but heat creeps up from your spine into your head anyway. Pressure builds behind your eyes. You hear a distant buzzing. _He knows_ , you think, but you don't know what he knows. _He knows_ , you think again to yourself, not really sure why.

 

He leans, his body curved in a menacing arch over you. “I know who you are, Peculiar Icaran.”

 

You haven't heard that name in a long, long time.

 

You take a breath, and he places his fingers against your lips. You wait.

 

“Do not,” He murmurs, “Lie to me.”

 

You swallow.

 

He nods.

 

“How many have you killed?”

 

“I-I, I don't know,” you stammer, your thoughts trying to catch up with everything that's happening. _He knows, he's going to kill me, he knows_ -

 

He reaches over, deliberate as sin, and stubs his cigarette out on the back of your hand. He lets you shriek for about a second before he covers your mouth. His eyes are ice chips. When he takes his hand back, you zip your lip.

 

“What did I just say?” He tilts his head, waiting. You realize he's waiting for you to repeat it.

 

“D-d-d-don't l-l-l-lie,” You whimper, “B-but I didn't! I s-s-s- _swear, I don't know!_ ”

 

He raises an eyebrow at you. He leans back, the dead cigarette in the hand he braces on your desk. Embers are still glowing in the grey ash. Your fingers twitch. “Explain.”

 

“I, I'm...” You swallow, and nearly choke on your own saliva. His eyes narrow. You can tell he despises you, the way you talk. You're trying not to panic, but that makes everything worse. “I'm,” You take a breath. “I'll tell you.” You breathe, again, and again. “B-b-but it's a l-long story, and... please s-stop h-hurting, me... I g-get worse when you d-do that.”

 

“Alright.”

 

Pause.

 

“Unless I think you're lying.”

 

The burn on your hand throbs. You wince. It's the best offer you're going to get. Better than you thought you'd get.

 

“You kn-now what, Sh-shadow mmmagic is, y-yes?” He nods. “I... w-wasn't common, on Prospit. M-most people didn't even know what it w... was. But... I am... very good at it.”

 

He regards you with the most neutral expression you have ever seen on a living being.

 

Then he reaches into his coat and pulls out a revolver.

 

You jolt backwards, but his foot is on your chair before you can get anywhere.

 

“Y-you can tell, under my eyes, it's that p-purple g-grey color!” You hate that purple-grey, the stain of shadow magic. You can't get rid of it. You can't even hide it – even pasting your face with makeup can't conceal it. You're terrified someone will notice, and realize what you've done. The monster you are.

 

He doesn't even look at you. He just starts loading the chamber, bullet by bullet.

 

“Keep going.” He prompts.

 

You keep your eye on the gun.

 

“On P-Prospit, they,” He looks up at you now, and you press the words out of your mouth as deliberately as you can. “...w-we, knew we were l-l-lose... losing, from the s-start. I was p-part of a p-plan to try and ch-change that. To try and ch-ch-change the r...rules.”

 

His foot drops off your chair. He stares. You keep going.

 

“I h-have a very p-powerful imagination stat.” You say, plainly. It's not bragging. The stat is literally maxed out. You feel it in the core of your being, the depths of your brain, pressing up through your spine. “It's not what one n-normally uses, to access shadow magic. But it's g-good at b-breaking rules.”

 

You rub your hands together. You feel very cold. The burn on your hand is an icicle stabbing your skin. “It's a-also good at talking to h-h-h-horror...terrors.”

 

Diamonds Droog snaps the chamber into the gun with a flick of his wrist. Your eyes dart down to his fingers, then back up to his face. He's staring down at you like he's trying to see beneath your skin.

 

“I d-dreamed, about what I saw. Or... I saw, wh-what I dreamed. The machine they kept m-me in made what I imagined, in our world.”

 

“...the monsters.” You hear him mutter.

 

“Y-yes. I don't know how man...many, I made, or, how many p-p-people, they killed.” You wince at him, already feeling your brains blown apart on your office wall. There is no way you're going to live through this. But now you can't stop. “I didn't even kn-know what I w-was dddd _doing._ ” You close your eyes. Let him shoot you. At least then you won't be afraid anymore.

 

You whisper your truth.

 

“I wasn't... alone, in my head, when the scientists woke me up.”

 

His eyes are like searchlights over the prison yard of your weakness.

 

“And I k-killed them, too.”

 

“And then...” You unbutton your shirt. He watches you and says nothing. He didn't seem to believe you before. You're not sure he will now. “...I tried to kill myself.”

 

You feel his hand on you before you see it. His fingers smooth between the folds of your shirt. Solid, and warm. You stare up at him and realize that, for once, you recognize the look on his face. It chills you to the bone. He's not going to kill you. It's much, much worse.

 

Diamonds Droog digs his nails into the scarred flesh of your chest, and it hurts. But you do not make a sound.

 

* * *

 

When Ace Dick comes back, you're huddled under your desk with two empty bottles, three full ones, and you're crying.

 

“Sleuth!” He calls into the hallway, “What did you say to Pickle!”

 

“What?” Sleuth yells back from further down to the hall.

 

“I said, what the goddamn hell did you say to Pickle Inspector, you son of a bitch! He's crying again!”

 

“How is that my fault!?” Sleuth shouts, and you can hear him walking closer. “It's not like I'm the only thing he cries about!”

 

“Well, if it wasn't _you_ ,” Ace Dick snarls, “Who's it gonna be?”

 

“Why don't you _ask_ him, instead of _yelling at me?_ ”

 

Ace Dick is silent for a moment.

 

“ _...you know I'm no good at that stuff...”_ He says, softly, and you open up the bottle of gin. The smell of juniper is a comfort, the taste cloying on your tongue. It burns down your throat. You're not drunk enough. If you do get drunk enough, you'll be somewhere else. Somewhere bright and sweet and different. Not this grey, gritty world.

 

“Hey.” Ace Dick's legs are right outside your desk. The rest of him follows. “Squeeze over, hatrack.”

 

You laugh, just a little. It comes out as an indignant sob. He winces, but pulls himself down next to you. He takes the bottle you've got open out of your hands and gulps down a long swig.

 

“Hhha.... alright. What are you cryin' about?”

 

“...” You're folded up, legs against your chest, and it's easy to rest your head on your knees. “...I'm a monster,” You croak.

 

“Oh crap, not this again.” Ace Dick rolls his eyes. “Sleuth! He's upset about war stuff again.”

 

Problem Sleuth is beneath the desk in a flash, squishing you next to Ace Dick. You're thin enough that it isn't an issue, but you're tall enough to be an obstacle. This desk wasn't built to shelter three hardboiled men like you.

 

Problem Sleuth steals the liquor from Ace Dick, who is muttering profanity at him. When Sleuth's done, he shoves it back at Ace Dick.

 

“Hey.” Sleuth touches your shoulder. “...forget that crap. You didn't have a choice.”

 

You try to fold up smaller.

 

“I mean it. And there's tons of people in the city who did worse than you, on purpose. And they get to leave that shit behind them. So do you. You're not a monster. You're Pickle Inspector.”

 

“Yeah,” Ace Dick adds, “And you're the least annoying teammate I've got. So I need you to pull it together.”

 

“Hey!”

 

You should tell them about Droog. You should warn them that Droog _knows_ , and that he is not going to leave you alone.

 

But you don't.

 

* * *

 

“Are you sure about this?” Problem Sleuth asks you, two days later, in the quiet before the storm. You are getting ready for what you know will be a difficult task. Bad enough to go up against such odds, let alone when the Felt are involved. But this is your best shot. You know where they're going to be, and you know that the more frightening members of their crew (it's Sn0wman, all of you are frightened of Sn0wman) won't be present.

 

But Die will, and he's your goal.

 

You nod, adding a little, “Yes,” just to make sure he knows how sure you're sure you are. You can do this. You have to. You owe Ace Dick so very much, and you're less frightened of Death than the things in your head.

 

The worst Death can do is keep you. You're not sure you'd mind.

 

Sleuth claps you on the shoulder on his way out. You retrieve your flask and finish off the honey whiskey inside. Then you feel your grip on reality start to fizz, and you're finally drunk enough.

 

“It's time,” You hear over the radio belted to your hip. Ace Dick is on edge. That makes sense.

 

You press down on the button. “Ready here.” The radio clicks off when you let it go.

 

“Here we go!” Sleuth crows, but he doesn't let go of the button, and you hear Slick shouting over the line before Sleuth's voice comes back. “...uh oh,” He says.

 

Privately, you agree.

 

But it's too late to turn back now. You have your bag of puzzles leaning against your leg, ready to be used. You'll just have to break out the ones for more than six players.

 

* * *

 

You finally find Die after a quiet ten minutes. You have the volume on your radio turned off. It makes you nervous to hear Sleuth and Slick yelling at each other between spates of gunfire. You can tell how much they compliment each other, even when their words are not so kind.

 

 _Of course,_ when you find Die, you also find Diamonds Droog.

 

You move silently through your maze, trying to think of a way to separate them. If you can get Die by himself, you can surprise him, and get what you need before he disappears. Unfortunately, Die seems to sense his impending imperilment, because he hangs uncomfortably close to Droog, who is struggling with the exit.

 

You weigh your options, and decide.

 

“H-h-h-here,” You offer, and Droog slowly turns his head to look at you. The whites of his eyes seem a little wider than usual. “...allow me.”

 

He steps aside, Die hanging close to him, and you try not to grumble as you open the door. This is going to be impossible. You position yourself in such a way as to invite Droog through, while still remaining mostly inside your maze. If you can close the door after Droog leaves, but before Die gets out...

 

Droog shoulders past you, clearly distracted. He doesn't spare you another glance. Die skitters behind, but you grab him by the shirt. You block off his scream with both hands to his windpipe.

 

Beneath you, Die chokes and writhes, grabbing at your fingers and trying to dislodge you. You don't let up. He's kicking his legs like a dying animal, but you're firmly trapping him between your legs. You count down the seconds as he tries to breathe.

 

Droog says something you don't quite catch. You glance up at him, but he doesn't interfere. That's all you need. Beneath you, Die chokes on his words. You estimate it won't be long now, based on the shade of green he's turned.

 

“...” You look back up at Droog. He's waiting for an explanation. Again. “...I n-need, something.” You tell him. It's true enough.

 

Then you feel Die go limp under your hands, and you get to work. It's a quick pat-down to find the doll in Die's pocket. You're not at a great angle to try and hide it, but you curl down to take a look at Die's hat and stash the doll before Droog can move to get a better look.

 

You get up as quickly as you can, scanning the area. There's no one near. It's just the two of you. You resign yourself to a confrontation, and finally meet his eyes.

 

“...Droog,” You sigh.

 

“Inspector.” His voice is a crisp clip. You nod, doing your best not to just make a break for it. He'd catch you. He'd probably like that. The lines of his body are lean, steady, and at rest. He looks like he could unsheathe claws and rip you to bits at the drop of a hat. His eyes suggest you might enjoy it.

 

You edge towards the door, moving slowly and quietly.

 

He does not move in turn. He's in your way.

 

He regards you with a slow gaze, wandering his way up from your feet to your shoulders. It's like he's seeing you for the first time.

 

He asks, “Why did you take Die's doll?”

 

And Die squeals, “You took my doll!”

 

You turn towards the voice without thinking, and Die stumbles into Droog with a horrified screech. He pushes off and breaks into a run, dashing past Droog like the devil is at his heels. You see the look on Droog's face before he turns to watch Die go. Die's fear is justified.

 

Die screams some threat, but you aren't listening. You have what you need. Now you need to get out.

 

You slink backwards towards the maze's door, and you're almost over the threshold when Diamonds Droog grabs you by the arm. His hand is an upsetting firmness on you, his eyes white hot, and you realize he's probably looking for an excuse to harm you.

 

He recognizes the look in your eyes and sneers.

 

“I d-don't wanna f-fight you,” You say, and you mean it.

 

His grip tightens. “Tell me why you took it.”

 

“We... need it.”

 

“Clearly. Why?”

 

He's not letting go. You have to get out of here. You have no choice.

 

* * *

 

You punch Diamonds Droog right in the goddamn face.

 

* * *

 

After that, you hightail it out of there, locking the door behind you and scrambling to safety. You play the feeling of his cheek against your fist over again in your mind, and if you laugh a little to yourself, high and scratchy, you figure that's okay. Just so long as he never catches up to you. Oh, god, he better not catch up to you.

 

* * *

 

It's been a long time since you went seeking out Death in such a literal fashion. You remember the design you used last time, but you don't bother trying to perfectly recreate it. For you, this is like going home. You never really forget the way back. You do what feels right.

 

Cutting open your arm to mix the blood with the ink feels right. You taste the adrenaline on your tongue, flooding your veins, poisoning you with energy. You feel more alive than you have in years. You punched Diamonds Droog in the face and he's going to kill you but it doesn't matter. None of that matters like this does.

 

You bind up your arm before you continue, making sure none of your blood ends up on the items you got from Ace Dick. You tailor the circle to your needs, adding kinks and loops into the aperture of the circle, setting out relics from Mrs. Dick's life and death at convergence points in your fractals. You sit yourself into the middle of it and survey the mess you've made.

 

It's been a long time.

 

You light up the candles and settle into place, setting Die's doll in front of you. Then you set about getting yourself good and drunk. Drunk even for you. Drunk as drunk can be.

 

At a certain point, it stops being pleasant. You careen past your near-constant buzz, to a pleasant haze, to straight up _zozzled,_ and from there you just keep going.

 

Time passes like molasses.

 

You are barely sitting up, although to you, it feels like you're lying on the floor. Gravity is no longer a friend, or even a friendly acquaintance. It has moved on to violence in its attempt to have you on your back.

 

Somewhere, far away from your thoughts, a phone rings.

 

Things around you are wavering. The distance from where you sit to the door is close enough to touch with your toes if you'd unfold your legs, but you can't, because they go on for miles. It's not safe. You might kick up into the ceiling, and your upstairs neighbors probably already hate you. Everybody hates you.

 

Speaking of, Diamonds Droog is standing at your bedroom door. You can see him even through your closed eyelids. His body is like a heartbeat, red and wet, pulsing in your mind,

 

“Don't move.” You warn him, because the walls are alive, and they are watching. Any sudden moves will scare them. They scare right mean.

 

“You're meddling with horrorterrors?” He asks, and you hear them hissing in the back of your head. You know what they're saying, even if you can't understand the words. They want you to meddle. They recommend it.

 

You open your eyes to look at him. It dries your mouth. He looks good enough to get murdered by.

 

“Nnnno...” You hum, tasting the sound. “Sit... if you interrupt, we'll both regret it.” _In-ter-rupt. Re-g-ret. In-ter-re-g-ret._ Putting words together in your mind makes you breathless. You smile to yourself. You're so funny. You're the funniest guy you know. 

 

Diamonds Droog looks like he's about to disagree with you, but you ignore him in favor of retrieving the long hat pin you brought for this. It's completely ordinary, except for the fact that you're going to bind it to a ghost.

 

First, though, you have to get to her.

 

You open your mouth, the clicking gargle of night pushing up your throat. Darkness comes. You find it to be cold and familiar.

 

 _Hello, Pickle Inspector._ Death says, his voice the warmth of blood under fingernails, and your vision goes black.

 

* * *

 

You open your eyes in Death's dining room, his table set with two teacups and a kettle. The centerpiece is a pile of board games and puzzles. Outside the window, a gigantic white cube is spinning in lazy tempo.

 

“ _You came back on your own. I'm surprised._ ” Death says, ogling you.

 

You ogle back at him, “Are you really...?”

 

“ _A little, I must admit. You are very odd._ ” He smiles. He has the most beautiful smile. It looks better on him than you, even though your faces are disturbingly similar. That tends to happen when access to symbolic aspects of life and death occur through dream-cloning. “ _Most people only ever see me once. You're back again a second time, and you aren't even dead yet._ ”

 

“Maybe n-next time,” You reply. He says nothing, simply looks at you with black eyes in cavernous eye sockets, his smile never fading. “...this time, I n-need something.”

 

“ _Last time, you needed something too._ ” Death tilts his head towards the cube. “ _How did that work out, exactly?_ ”

 

You clench your fingers to keep them from rubbing the scar on your chest.

 

“I d... don't need to b-break the rules, this time. J-just... make an exception.”

 

Death's eyes rove over you for a downright expectant moment. It's such a pregnant pause, it might pop any second. “ _...you came a long way, for such a small thing as a single death. Last time we played for your world._ ”

 

“And h-how d-did th, that work out?” You ask. He breaks into a smile.

 

“ _Your mind's made up. You have an idea of your prize. What if I win?_ ”

 

“A l-life for a d-death.”

 

“ _You?_ ”

 

You nod. Death steeples his fingers.

 

“... _I already have her life,_ ” Death reasons, “ _And I will have yours as well all the same, someday.”_

 

The silence grows thick.

 

Death sits taller, looking down on you. _“No, I do not accept your terms._ ”

 

A bead of sweat rolls down the back of your neck, cold against your hot flesh.

 

“W-what do y-you have in m-mind?”

 

“ _You are playing for time. Time that was not allotted to you...”_ Death gazes upon you, steel in his eyes. “ _I want time that was taken from me._ ”

 

A tremor cracks down your spine.

 

“I c-c-c-can't g-give him, to y-y-you,” You whisper, voice breaking, fingers clenched to your chest. “H-h-h-his life isn't m-mine to g-g-give.”

 

“ _And yet, you took it from me._ ”

 

“I-I-I d-didn't kn, know,”

 

Death smiles. “ _Neither did he. And now, once again, he does not know his immortality is in question._ ”

 

“W-will you k-k-k-kill him, if I lose?”

 

“ _His time has come and gone in this universe._ ” He intones. “ _Lose to me, and I will restore him to his natural end._ ”

 

You swallow deep. This isn't what you wanted. You _know_ you can win, but... the stakes...

 

To be entirely honest, you were alright bargaining your life for that of AD's wife. You don't care if you live, or if she does, or if either of you doesn't.

 

But you cant - you _won't_ \- let Death have Problem Sleuth.

 

“...I h-have a different idea.” You decide. “You... want time? Time that isn't y-yours?”

 

Death lifts his chin, the light catching in his eyes. “ _I'm listening._ ”

 

* * *

 

“ _Ah! You win again. Next time, I think... you won't be so lucky._ ”

 

* * *

 

You crisscross the live wires of universes, smoky tendrils curling at your ankles, the low voices in the back of your head clearing into a stereo soundscape. Mrs. AD is waiting for you, her dark eyes bright against her pale face. Her hair coils about her head like ivory tentacles in an abyssal current.

 

“I remember you,” She says, “You were Dick's friend, the experiment.”

 

Even after everything you did to get this far, a small, knotted-up part of you suggests you leave her behind. _I'm sorry, AD, I did my best._ You smile, reaching up a shaky hand to tip your bowler.

 

“G-guilty.”

 

“He sent you here to get me?” She puts her hand on her hip.

 

“Y-y-yes, he w-worked very h-hard.”

 

Mrs. AD looks off into the distance at absolutely nothing. There's nothing there, in the distance. It's empty. She closes her eyes, like the nothingness is too much to bear.

 

“Take me back,” She hisses.

 

You offer her your arm.

 

* * *

 

You and Problem Sleuth reconvene at the office. Evidently, Diamonds Droog detained him there with broken bones, but even that didn't stop him from trying to call you, to warn you. The guilt grips you in the gut. He's always looking out for you, even when he's going into shock.

 

“How was Death?” Sleuth asks you, wincing, while you crack his body back into place.

 

“...” You worry your lip so hard it bleeds. Sleuth raises his eyebrows.

 

“I thought he liked you?”

 

“H-he does. But... he... w-wanted you, if I l-lost.”

 

Problem Sleuth blinks.

 

“...me?”

 

You nod. You can't look him in the eyes. “H-h-he said your... nnnnatural... time... was up.”

 

“...hh.” Sleuth reaches up, settling his hair with his hand. He tries, anyway. He makes it worse. You reach over and put it into place for him. The follicles catch the light against the pale palm of your hand, throwing off just the slightest hint of gold. You finally meet his eyes, seeking and finding the tint of green in them.

 

He smiles up at you like you didn't turn him into something _wrong_ completely against his wishes.

 

“I guess he wanted my _unnatural_ time back?”

 

You nod again, more slowly.

 

He grins, and snakes his hand up to your hair this time. He can't make it more of a mess than it already is. But he tries.

 

“He can try whenever he wants. I'll kick his ass.”

 

Your laugh comes out as a sob.

 

His hand is warm over your neck, just beneath your ear. “Hey, don't be upset... you did good, Pickles.” You try and smile at him and start crying. “Hey! Quit the waterworks! I'm not dead yet!”

 

“B-but you _could_ have been-” You try, but he stops you.

 

“We don't know that.”

 

“We don't know anything! But you were seriously hurt, and trying to warn me, that was _heroic-_ ”

 

“Ssshhh.” Sleuth drags you down to his chest, your ear against his heart. It's still beating. “Hey. I'm okay. We're okay. AD's okay, too. You won. It doesn't matter.”

 

“Please don't risk your life for me again.” You whisper.

 

Sleuth snorts, threading his hand in your hair.

 

“Shut up, Pickles.”

 

* * *

 

When you get home, there's a stickynote where your door should be.

 

_Next time u owe mob money make sure u pay. Get me last months rent & u get ur door. - MGMT_

 

You can see through the hole into your kitchen. There's an envelope on your table. From here, you can see it's sealed with red wax, a deeply embossed diamond pressed into the center.

 

You resign yourself to getting some two-by-fours and a hammer.


	2. Chapter 2

You are standing waist-deep in a pit of red clay. Above you, infinite blackness stretches to the stars, and you can hear them whispering across the void.

 

You struggle with your hands. Trying to pull them out just pushes your hips down, and you're further in the pit.

 

Hands clasp your ankles.

 

Your scream cuts the sky, and mud fills your mouth. It tastes like copper and grapefruit and iodine. You know this. You've been here before.

 

The fingers on your ankles start to claw up your body, fingernails digging into your legs, your thighs, upwards, until a figure begins to form in front of you.

 

Clay hardens and peels, shedding like skin, and Diamonds Droog emerges. He smiles softly. His eyes are black, like yours.

 

“ _Hello, Inspector._ ” He whispers against your lips. You open your mouth. His tongue is like a knife, cutting open your gums.

 

He presses his body against yours. It's wrong. It's as if beneath his skin is only steel. His hips ache into you.

 

“ _I know you.”_ Death growls into your teeth. He bites your tongue, and your blood is sweet and pulpy. It dribbles down your chin, tears pushing out of your eyes and sticking to your cheeks.

 

You spit up dark red arils onto his chest, and Death licks his lips. He's still wearing Droog's face, but with his paint lining Droog's cheeks, his eyesockets filled in with black.

 

“ _You'll be back._ ” He shows you the seeds you coughed up. They catch the light like rubies. _“You're mine already._ ”

 

* * *

 

You jolt up on a pile of your clothes. You can still taste pomegranates and blood. You can still hear the stars whisper. “ _You'll be back,_ ” They echo, on and on. “ _You'll be back. You'll be back._ ”

 

Part of you, a cold, hard lump in your chest, has already given in. And it hungers.

 

You swallow. The feeling isn't going away.

 

You are not alone.

 

In the back of your mind, you feel something unfurling. There's a pressure behind your eyes. You lick your lips and taste the throbbing of your heart. Pressing your hands tight against your eyesockets, you curl over yourself, fighting the shaking in your bones.

 

_You'll be back._

 

If you want to stop this, you're going to have to do something stupid. But you know yourself. You don't have the strength. Self-control is not your strong suit.

 

You rise, bumbling out of your pile and into the kitchen. Your bare feet step between newspapers and receipts. On the table, where you left it, is Droog's invitation.

 

You know what he wants from you. He's seen the truth of you. Somehow, it caught his eye, and he's not going to let this go until you give him what he wants. And at this point, it's going to be him that breaks you, or it's going to be you.

 

Your mouth has gone so terribly dry.

 

_You'll be back._

 

The envelope trembles in right hand while you open a cabinet door with your left. You don't bother measuring out a shot of gin. You just unscrew the top and take a swig.

 

You don't notice what you've done until there's alcohol burning down your throat, running down your chin.

 

Sputtering, you press the bottle back to the counter and dry your lips with the back of your hand. The red seal of Droog's invitation seems to throb beneath your eyes. You can hear the laughter in your bones getting louder. It shakes your teeth, aches in your nailbeds. Your hair feels like needles, digging into your skin.

 

It strikes you with growing horror that drinking isn't helping - it's making it worse.

 

Your mouth goes numb. Your lips purse, tightening, and as your breath careens and you try to scream, you say to yourself, _“You'll be back.”_

 

You jerk backwards, smashing glass against the plastic of your kitchen counter, alcohol pouring out across the floor. You keep lurching away, but the traitorous floor shifts beneath you, spilling you onto the warped wood.

 

There's blood in your mouth. You shove your tongue to your lips and realize you've bitten yourself. A sob fights its way out of you. The cry bursts open, and tears start to rush, heavy and hot.

 

_I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this._

 

You curl up in the mess of your kitchen and wail into the newspapers on your floor.

 

Below you, your neighbor yells at you to shut up. You labor to slow your breathing, gritting your teeth, and rage fills you.

 

_I'm doing this for you! For all of you!_

 

Pressure mounts, red filling you up. You could give up. You could give in – and then – they would know all that you'd suffered, for their sake, for this stupid, pitiful world – and then – you could -

 

 _No!_ Something in you screams, _No! Stop it!_

 

You bite your mouth to muffle your shouts, hugging your legs to your chest. It helps to ram your head against your knees and _press._ The pain cuts through the haze of your mind.

 

_I can't do this. ...not by myself._

 

Then it hits you.

 

As long as you can play this right, you can reduce the danger for everyone else. If you're lucky... this plan will fix things.

 

And if you're _really_ lucky, maybe Droog will just kill you, and it'll all be over.

 

* * *

 

You let the bouncer drag you along, as if you didn't chose to be there. It's a little disconcerting that Droog hasn't realized you don't have a choice anymore. Maybe he's not as smart as you thought.

 

That would be fine. It might be easier.

 

The club, Ace of Stars, is solidly mob. You're not surprised Droog haunts here, although you are surprised no one seems surprised at you. Maybe they know better than to stare at detectives being manhandled up to what you can only assume is Droog's private booth.

 

He is waiting for you at a table ensconced in an upstairs balcony, framed by thick red curtains. Droog tilts his head from the floor show to look at you when you're shoved next to him, the bouncer leaving you behind in his escape.

 

Diamonds Droog is dressed, as always, in black. Against the grey of his skin, it seems as if the pitch of his suit is darker than his shadows, cooler than the frightening bright white of his shirt. The only bit of color on his entire person is the perfectly red square in his pocket.

 

“Wh-what-”

 

Droog contemplates you for a half-second before he slaps you solidly on the face. It rings in your ears, stunning you silent, and you rub your face with your fingers. You don't even remember your question. You didn't think he'd hit you. As much as he's done already, and as much as you were afraid he'd do, you didn't think he'd open with violence.

 

“Be quiet.” Now he's frowning. “...why do you act like this?”

 

“...I-I don't, understand,” you whisper, brain racing to define what you misjudged. This isn't the conversation you expected. What is he playing at?

 

“You persist in acting as if you're a useless slob, when I know for a fact you are not. Just the other evening, you brought a woman back from the dead.”

 

You feel your skin ripple.

 

Droog's eyes are on yours, and he leans back, his thigh pressing tight against yours. You can feel a twitch between your shoulders, an itch beneath your flesh. You have done more than misjudged. You have miscalculated.

 

“She didn't seem terribly grateful.” He adds, motioning to the stage. Your eyes track his hand, and it takes you a moment to understand that there is a woman on stage. You know that woman. You've just never seen her quite so... unclothed. “Not that you did it for her.”

 

Your throat grows dry. You taste bitter fruit beneath your tongue.

 

“...I...”

 

The light glances off her pale skin, her far, far too pale skin, and you know you're not hiding your dysfunction.

 

“I d-did it for h-him,” You try.

 

You can see his smile from the corner of your eye. You can feel it pressed up inside your grey matter. “For your friend?” He asks, and you nod without really thinking. All you can see is Ace Dick's wife, dancing.

 

“ _No._ ” Death whispers in your ear.

 

You nearly leap in Droog's grip. He is looming so close to you that you can feel his heartbeat. You look into his eyes, _really look_ , for perhaps the first time, and you can see yourself in the infinite white fields of his irises. But it's not just yourself. It's the yourself you're most afraid of.

 

You fight the urge to bolt. What you want to escape can't be outrun. _It's already here._

 

Diamonds Droog licks his lips. “You didn't do it for him, either. You did it for yourself.” He says, like he knows it's true. You know it's true, too. “You _like_ playing god.” He bares his teeth at you, all animal, and it's too terrible to witness.

 

You fold yourself over his shoulder, trying to bury your face against the booth. He traces his hand through your hair, almost gently, and when he whispers against your throat, you feel it more than hear it.

 

“How did it feel, to let Death in your skin?”

 

You shudder, but he does not let up. He wraps his fingers in your hair, dragging your head up, his eyes inescapable.

 

“...full,” You say, before you can stop yourself.

 

He smiles. “Do you feel empty, inspector?”

 

Now, you are afraid. You thought that you were before. You thought you were afraid of what he would do to your body, as if that was all he was interested in. You thought you were afraid of what he would do to your reputation, once he knew what you had done. You thought you were afraid of him ending you, as if that wasn't what you wanted.

 

You thought you could use him like a knife, to clean out the infection in your soul. As stupid as it was, you thought your masochism would save you. As foolish as it was... you wanted someone to control you. You wanted to go home. Back to sleep, back into the tank.

 

But it's not possible. And now he knows, at least on some instinctual level, about Death. And now you're not sure you can stop him. Because... you're not sure you want to.

 

This world is so horrible. And there is some part of you, tight and snarling, that knows you are meant for so much more than living in it.

 

He's looking at you, and you're talking, but you don't know what you're saying.

 

“Speak _up,_ inspector.” He murmurs. You can see Death in his eyes.

 

You are so tired.

 

“Y-yes,” You choke, “...I do.”

 

Droog's eyes flatten, and they are his again. You're not sure what the difference is. But you can see it, and your mind returns to you somewhat. Death has passed. You're left with Droog. You're not sure if that should be as comforting as it is.

 

“...I will help you.” He says, pulling himself back into something vaguely civilized. He adjusts his tie, smooths his hair.

 

“...h-help, me?”

 

Diamonds Droog settles his gaze on you, and you see him undress and redress you in his mind. In his imagining, you're probably wearing something a little different than what you're used to.

 

“Your self-control is abysmal.” He pronounces, “And your manner is insulting. You're barely a threat, let alone a proper adversary.”

 

Diamonds Droog leans in closer.

 

“If this _thing_ between us is going to work, you're going to have to put in more effort.”

 

You feel the world tilt sideways.

 

* * *

 

You don't mean to go missing. It just sort of... happens. It starts with you waking up in a small dark room and continues with you letting Droog keep you.

 

He doesn't seem to notice that you're manipulating him. You try not to feel too guilty about it.

 

You don't have the self-control to detox yourself. You know that. You've been solidly drunk for a period of several years. It doesn't help that it makes you (feel) more powerful, which is a feeling you're addicted to as much as booze itself. But you need to be free of this if you're going to put a stop to what you know is coming. As much as it weakens you personally, you need to make sure the connection you can feel to that slippery place between worlds is severed. And if it can't be, then you must do the next best thing, and lessen the harm you can do.

 

So you whimper at him, and you tremble and shake, and when he looks at you with those hungry eyes, you escalate. All the while, you can't help but wonder if you've been overestimating Diamonds Droog. Your fears seem to have been completely unwarranted. You're actually having _fun._

 

* * *

 

And then the withdrawal hits.

 

* * *

 

You're not sure when it started. You're always vaguely nauseous, but this is different. You haven't had it this bad since you started walking.

 

You were used to floating, enveloped in warmth. Weightless. When you dream, sometimes, you dream you're back there, in the muffled sounds and pastel light... and you are safe... Then gravity hits you, and you crawl, struggling to lift yourself onto your stupid legs, desperate to understand the oppressive force acting on your body. It is like swimming through concrete.

 

This is like that, but so, so much worse.

 

Your stomach eats at itself with a rusty spoon, scraping into your insides, and your arms won't stop shaking. You've never been so cold in your entire life. Every time you swallow, you think you'll drown in your own saliva. Your thirst is never quenched. And Droog is sparse with the water.

 

You thought you were the one in charge, but now you're not so sure.

 

Diamonds Droog gives you everything. He brings you food you can barely touch, he selects what you wear, and he does it all with those steely white eyes. Sometimes, you forget why you're there. He's all too happy to remind you.

 

“Inspector...” He whispers, once, when you're tied in a chair and he's fully dressed. The bastard. He touches your face, and even through the glove his skin burns you. “...were you just waiting for an excuse not to be responsible, when you killed them?”

 

You hate the way he

 

You hate

 

You

 

Diamonds Droog is

 

Sometimes, when he touches you, you let yourself forget.

 

And then he reminds you.

 

“Inspector...” He murmurs against your skin, once, when you're pinned beneath him. You are not interested in talking. He grabs your hair, and it hurts. You're even less interested in talking. “...were you just waiting for someone like me to take control?”

 

You close your eyes, but Diamonds Droog's laughter doesn't need to be seen. You can hear it just fine.

 

* * *

 

It takes you a little while to figure out where you are, mostly because you spend most of your time with a massive headache.

 

It's a small room, with tiny watercloset, decorated like the guestroom of a tasteful sex dungeon. There are no windows, and you can hear absolutely nothing from outside. It's just a hollowness. Sometimes, the only sound is your heartbeat. You can feel it in your head.

 

You have no sense of time, or how quickly it passes.

 

Sometimes, when Droog is gone, other people visit you, but you're pretty sure they aren't real. Sometimes, you're not sure if Droog is real either. Maybe he did kill you. Maybe you're dead.

 

“ _Oh, no. Not quite. You're getting there, though._ ” Death says, sitting in the chair Droog ties you to. The rope isn't there right now. Probably so you won't hang yourself.

 

Death smiles at you. “ _You're creative enough to find another way._ ”

 

“What... do you want.” You ask, although it comes out a little less polite than a proper question. Probably because you're half on the bed and half on the floor, trying to make the room stop spinning.

 

“ _I wanted to remind you of your options. Things don't have to be this way._ ” His smile softens, all sympathy. “ _You don't have to go through such pain, Pickle Inspector._ ”

 

You drag yourself onto your hands and knees, trying to sit up. You manage to get your feet beneath you before your weight plants you on the ground, your head leaned against the bedframe. Looking up at Death, your heart aches. You would like this not to be so painful. You'd like that very much.

 

“...what do... you want.” You repeat.

 

Death sighs.

 

“ _...things set into motion must conclude. You will have a choice. And you will choose wrong. ...you always do._ ”

 

“Wh...at... do... you...”

 

“ _I want you to stop, and think._ ” Death's voice is shaking. ...is he... afraid? “ _Think about what you're doing. You're the only one who can stop this._ ”

 

The door opens, and you glance to see Diamonds Droog step inside. Behind him, you see racks of suits, all identical to your eye.

 

You look back to the chair, but Death isn't there anymore.

 

Droog closes the door.

 

* * *

 

“Do you want this?” Droog asks you, and you can't even meet his eyes to answer. There's wine in the glass in his hand. You don't think you've ever seen a wine so deeply red before.

 

“Pickle Inspector.” He grabs your chin like a wineglass. You dart your eyes between his face and the wine. This is the worst moment of your entire life, besides all the other ones. “Do you... want... this?”

 

The noise you make is probably a crime. It makes him smile. ...probably just like real crimes do. You are having a lot of sex with a very bad man. Way to go, Pickle Inspector!

 

“That's not an answer.”

 

Then, a phone rings.

 

It throws both of you off for a moment, though in your case, it's because you didn't know there was a phone in here. Diamonds Droog's jaw sets rather tightly. You can see him make a decision.

 

He leaves you (wine in hand) to go to the bookshelf bolted to the wall. You've examined it before and found nothing exciting beyond the knowledge that Diamonds Droog seems to enjoy pretentious nihilist philosophy. He reaches up to take out a nondescript volume. When he opens it to a certain page, it turns into a handset.

 

_...phonebook._

 

Ha.

 

“What.” Diamonds Droog utters, flatly.

 

Someone yells at him on the other side of the line, so harshly you can almost make out what they're saying. It's Spades Slick.

 

“...what?” His eyes flick to you, and you stop wistfully gazing at the wine in Droog's hand long enough to notice his shoulders are very tight. He turns away from you.

 

“...yes.”

 

More yelling. Droog's shoulders do not relax.

 

“I don't-” The phone transmits a metallic shriek. Droog pulls it away from his ear until it's done. Then, he hisses, “Shut up. I'm coming.”

 

He closes the phone and turns on you. His eyes are dark, shadowed by the brim of his hat, and utterly unreadable. He downs the wine in one swig.

 

“Come on.” He growls, grabbing the bottle on his way out. “We have a job.”

 

“We?” You feel your brain break, just a little.

 

Diamonds Droog throws a black trenchcoat at your head. “Yes, _we._ ” You tug the coat over your arms while Droog mutters, “Hurry up. ...Problem Sleuth is in trouble.”

 

* * *

 

You do not often find yourself in a car.

 

You have never found yourself in a car driven the way Diamonds Droog drives a car. Not even your growing dread for the fate of Problem Sleuth can eclipse the terror of his quick turns and gratuitous law-breaking. You can tell it's a serious situation, and that speed is of the essence, but you aren't entirely sure you'll make it in one piece like this.

 

He never once signals a turn.

 

“Drink this.” He snarls at you, pressing the bottle of wine into your chest. “You're more useful drunk.”

 

“Um.” You reply, already downing as much as you can.

 

You're across town and at the gates of Felt Manor monstrously quick. You're amazed Droog's car didn't leave tracks of fire in its wake. You're horrified Sleuth is at _Felt Manor._

 

Diamonds Droog brakes so hard that the seatbelt nearly chokes you. You're still recovering when he comes around the front and opens the passenger door, dragging you from the car to the trunk.

 

“I didn't bring your weapons. You'll have to use some of mine.” He says, popping open the back to reveal a truly impressive variety of guns.

 

You select a standard-looking key and a compact, black telescope. Diamonds Droog eyes you with open suspicion. “...you know how to use that?”

 

You ogle him. “...of course.”

 

Up at the house, a spate of gunfire cracks through the night. You and Droog look up, then back at each other. Then Diamonds Droog is leading the way, you covering his back with the key. You slide the telescope in your pocket. You have no idea how useful a sniper rifle will be in this situation, but it's better to be prepared.

 

As much as you can be, anyway.

 

Entering the lair of the most notorious criminal gang in the city without a plan or means of communication isn't your idea of a good time. It doesn't help you're going in blind, through the front door, but the situation is made even worse by the fact that you are completely certain that the more frightening members of the crew (Sn0wman) are not out of town on business.

 

Stepping through the portal, you are in fact utterly convinced that not only is Sn0wman present, she is heavily involved in whatever is happening.

 

You're convinced by the fact you can hear Spades Slick yelling at her.

 

“ _Get back here you huge bitch!_   I'm gonna carve your face to match mine!”

 

You don't hear the words of however she replies, but the warm hum of her voice is telling enough. As is the shout of incoherent indignance from Slick.

 

“This way,” Droog mutters, keeping low. You slump behind him, glancing upwards at the balcony of the second floor, running along the hallway you tread. You're sort of dismayed by the lack of snipers lurking up there. If they aren't posted here, where is everyone?

 

You follow Droog to Slick's voice and find your answer.

 

The parlor is in chaos.

 

You catch sight of Ace Dick running a few numbers down with a large Chicago typewriter, Hearts Boxcars covering his back. There's green blood on both of them, although a great deal more around Boxcars' mouth than anywhere on Ace Dick. You try to take that as a win.

 

Clubs Deuce is the first person to notice the two of you enter, and exclaims, “Droog!” before Droog can motion at him to keep quiet. You aim your gun between the first pair of green eyes on you. It's Quarters, whose smile is quite disconcerting. He leverages his gun at Droog. With that caliber, though, he might as well be aiming at you. He'll tear through the both of you like you're nothing.

 

“And now that all our guests are here-” cuts a voice you've never heard before, “-I believe we can settle down.”

 

Everyone in the room pivots to look up at the palest man you have ever seen.

 

He's dressed like the rest of the Felt (though a bit more white than green) but you've never even seen his face before. Could it be their mysterious patron, Lord English? You've never met anyone who's seen him, but you've heard stories about what he's done. Horror stories. 

 

“Thank you all for coming,” He says, a perfect host to a very odd party, and descends the stairs to join you all on the ground floor. Up close, he is much shorter than he appeared from the balcony.

 

His skin, eyes, and hair are all a luminous white. It's impossible to read his face. You can't even tell where he's looking.

 

Problem Sleuth scoffs, and you finally catch sight of him. Crowbar has him pinned by the throat with his crowbar.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Sleuth. If it's quite alright with all of you,” He adjusts his cufflinks, which you note are perfect little pearls. “I'd like to go ahead and get started. Shall we?” No one answers him. He doesn't seem to mind. “Sn0wman, if you please.”

 

You find her across the room. “Sorry, Slick.” She says, and from the way she says it, you almost believe she's sincere. Then she lunges at Spades Slick, cigarette holder in hand.

 

“No!” Problem Sleuth shouts. He breaks free from Crowbar, who stumbles back from him, and in a flash of light and feathers, Problem Sleuth is in front of Spades Slick.

 

You watch in horror as your best friend gets impaled.

 

* * *

 

“Well, I'd say that certainly qualifies as heroic... Wouldn't you, Inspector?” says the pale man.

 

* * *

 

You can hear yourself screaming. You can see Droog snap around to look at you. You can see his eyes widen, although you don't think much of it.

 

All you can think is that Sn0wman has bright red blood on her hands.

 

And there is ultraviolet fire in yours.

 

Somewhere, a clock begins to chime.

 

* * *

 

The manor is burning all around you, but you don't hear it. Instead, you attune yourself to the blistered tongues of ancient things, and you allow yourself to hover over by Sleuth's corpse. He is quite dead. DEAD, with capital letters, probably handwritten in blood-colored font.

 

Spades Slick is holding him. There is a wide hole in Problem Sleuth's chest. You can see the meat of him inside.

 

Spades Slick snarls up at you, his teeth sharp as his knives, his body a harsh angle over Sleuth's body. There are tears getting lost in his beard. “Stupid,” He sniffles, “Stupid idiot... I coulda...”

 

You kneel, and your body remembers to touch down to earth.

 

“It's fine, Spades Slick,” You say, and your voice echoes a little, despite the fullness of the room. There's a lot of commotion all around you, but you're busy. You are focused. You have eyes for nothing but Sleuth's cold face.

 

His eyes are still open, and they are full green. His hair is a brassy gold. Death has frozen him in something unnatural. Even his wings are still there, the feathers slick with blood.

 

Spades Slick looks at you as if he is seeing you for the first time.

 

“I will save him,” You say, and you reach out a greyed hand.

 

Somewhere, a clock is still chiming.

 

* * *

 

“ _Hello, Inspector._ ” Sighs Death.

 

“I want him back.” You hiss. “I will give you anything.”

 

“ _I know,_ ” He says, softly. “ _...I accept._ ”

 

Death stands at his full height.

 

“ _You chose the terms. I choose the game._ ”

 

“What is the game?” You ask, completely missing the fact that the terms you chose were horrible.

 

“ _Rock, paper, scissors._ ” He replies, and rolls up his sleeve.

 

* * *

 

The third time, it turns out, is the charm.

 

* * *

 

A cold sweat drips down your spine, horror pressing into your skin with the growl of your pulse. Death covers your fist with his hand.

 

“ _Paper wins._ ” He says, lips tilting up into a smile. “... _I'm truly sorry, Pickle Inspector._ ”

 

Then, he rips your body from your soul, and settles into your flesh like a gentleman into a favorite tailcoat.

 

He flexes your fingers, stretching your arms, and raises to your feet. The room is silent, except for the cracking beams of the roof.

 

“...Death, I presume.” Says the white man.

 

“ _Doc Scratch_.” Death replies. You face – his face – is shifting. Shadows lengthen and highlight the contours of the skull beneath the skin. “ _...it's been quite some time._ ”

 

“I've been very busy, I'm sure you understand.” Death nods your head. You – the not-in-your-body-you – begin to grow cold. You can feel yourself fading. Doc Scratch and Death are the only ones looking at you. You wish very much that they would stop. It's worse than if everyone's eyes were upon you.

 

You failed, and Sleuth is dead. And now maybe you are something worse than dead.

 

“ _Yes,_ ” Death says, ogling you. The shadows have grown dark as ink, now. He looks like someone painted a skull over his face.

 

“...what the fuck am I even looking at?” Spades Slick interjects, his voice low and harsh.

 

Death and Doc Scratch look over at him. He shrinks a little below their eyes. You know the feeling.

 

And feel the feeling. You feel like you're shrinking. Looking down, you see that it's not quite the case, but almost true.

 

Your soul is ankle-deep in inky tentacles. No one else seems to notice.

 

That seems quite appropriate to you, and so you say nothing as they close about you. You cast widely around for one last look at Diamonds Droog, and find him staring up at Death in your body like painter observing his masterpiece.

 

You don't even have it in you to feel sick. You're just very, very tired.

 

You close you eyes.

 

The monsters take you.

 

* * *

 

You are floating in infinite blackness. It's actually a relief.

 

You close your eyes, and let your body drift. You might as well leave your eyes open. You can't tell the difference. You twist your hips, looking up (or down, who knows?) and catch a glimpse of something strange. You're heading right for it.

 

You bump into a giant stone monolith.

 

Then your eyes adjust to what you're seeing.

 

It's the bed.

 

You scramble, pushing yourself off the bed, and end up around the other side. You choke on your scream.

 

Problem Sleuth's dead white eyes stare at you.

 

“...hm.” He sucks on his cigarette. “...well... shit.” He finally says.

 

The hole in his chest lets you see through to the symbol emblazoned on the stone bed. You were never that clear about the mythos of the heroes that never came for your session, but you're pretty sure that the last time you were here, the feather depicted on the bed was gold, and the slab was green.

 

Right now, it's an eye-scorching white, and the symbol is ink black.

 

“...yeah,” You reply.

 

“What's up with the get-up, Pickle?” Sleuth motions to you, and you look down. You're in a black robe you recognize.

 

“Oh...” You swallow. “...um... I... made a bet with Death, for your life. I lost.”

 

He regards you in complete silence for a few moments. “I guess we kind of blew it, huh?”

 

“I... I guess so,” You say, softly.

 

You're not sure how it all went so wrong. You thought... well... you thought you had a better handle on things. Now Sleuth is dead, and Death is alive. And it was all part of some elaborate scheme by that Doc Scratch. Death tried to warn you, but you hadn't understood... If you had, maybe Sleuth would still...

 

A shiver crawls up your spine, snapping your body still as a thought grips you.

 

“It's not fair.” You say, testing out the idea.

 

“Uh... Pickle...” Sleuth tries, reaching out his hand, but you barely hear him.

 

Shuddering takes you by the shoulders. You insist again, “It's not _fair._ ”

 

Problem Sleuth says something else, but you aren't listening anymore. You open your eyes and things click into place. Your awareness unfurls.

 

You turn to your best friend – your dead best friend – and see the lines coalescing in his chest. You can fix this. You can fix _everything._ You thrust your hand over the hole in his shirt, in his skin, and clench your fist in the ruins of him. Your mouth opens, and horrors spill out.

 

* * *

 

 

Problem Sleuth decks you right in the goddamn face.

 

* * *

 

 

You reach up your hand to touch your cheek.

 

“... _ow,_ ” You whine.

 

Problem Sleuth curls his lip at you.

 

“Just what the hell do you think you're doing?”

 

“I, I can fix this,” You start to say, but Problem Sleuth shakes his head and interrupts.

 

“Like how you fixed this? Like what got us here in the first place?”

 

Your heart clenches, wounded, more than you were when he _punched you like a goddamn maniac._ “Y-you said it was a good idea, to try and help Ace-”

 

“No, not that!” He shouts, “I mean, yes, I shouldn't have gone along with that either! But I meant before!” His teeth grit, his shoulders shake, his fists clench. “When you brought me back to life the first time!”

 

“...oh.” You whisper.

 

“Yeah,” He barks.

 

The both of you sit in a harshnasty silence.

 

You start to cry.

 

Then, he says, “...I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

 

“But you meant it,” You try not to wail, but you do, a little bit. He winces.

 

“...yeah. But I shouldn't have said it.”

 

“You hate me! You've hated me this whole time! You'd rather be dead than be with me!”

 

“Hey, hey, that's not true-” He reaches over a hand, and you jerk away.

 

“S-s-s-stop it! You're being truthful with me for the first time,” your tears fall faster, and harder, “Don't start lying now!”

 

“Uh,” He swallows, “Pickle Inspector-”

 

“Shut up! If we're being honest, if, if that's what we're doing, then-” Heat builds behind your eyes. Pressure begins to mount. “-then, let's be honest!” Nervous laughter cracks up your throat. It feels like a colony of ants have made a home beneath your clothes. You can't stop yourself anymore. “I wish you had never rescued me! I wish I'd died instead of you!”

 

Problem Sleuth gazes up at you, horrified.

 

“...Pickle Inspector, behind you.”

 

It takes you a minute to understand.

 

Then you realize, looking down, that not only is your skin now a solid violet grey, there is something wrapped around your waist, and it has lifted you into the air. You turn, slowly, to gaze behind you.

 

The horrorterror snakes out another tentacle, prodding your face.

 

It slithers over your cheeks in the rivers left by your sobbing, coating its colorless outgrowth in the black of your tears. It considers you with its mass of eyes, all moist with a milky white ooze. You feel a coldness on your skin and realize there are hundreds of tiny mouths licking up your tears. It takes everything you have not to cry out.

 

“Kreeplip?” it hiccups with its horrible beak.

 

“I, I d-don't-” You try to say.

 

Then it screams.

 

“Get your slimy tentacles off him, you creep!” Problem Sleuth yells, leaping upwards, and something tugs inside you. It is not a pleasant something. It burns, tight and bright, and you are exhausted. You can't allow Sleuth to get himself hurt protecting you. You'd rather hurt him yourself.

 

Sleuth battles with a few tendrils, and you let yourself watch. He doesn't even notice you not doing anything. He's gritting his teeth, his hair a mess, his eyes white.

 

You shift your weight, and burn your hands through the tentacle holding you. The monster screams as you fall to the slab. Next to you, Sleuth paces in place, ready for the fight to continue. But you're done fighting.

 

You're just going to take what you want.

 

You shove your hands through Sleuth's chest, and the next scream you hear is his.

 

* * *

 

You lay yourself down on the stone bed, holding your hands over your chest. You are alone. The horrorterror escaped after you managed to hurt it, and Sleuth disappeared the moment you brought him back to life. The slab beneath you is cracked. The mismatched pieces jut up into your back, a few slivers floating in space around you.

 

You fold your fingers together to stop their shaking.

 

Problem Sleuth had looked at you, just before you raised him from the dead and from this furthest rim of existence. His eyes were a supernatural green, his skin as grey as yours. And his face...

 

You had never seen him so unhinged.

 

A shiver runs down your hips, and you raise your hands over your eyes.

 

You bite your lips to keep yourself from laughing.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose Problem Sleuth's story would be next. We'll see?
> 
> EDIT: Because I lack self control, [here](https://8tracks.com/cardwrecks/like-there-s-a-god-in-me) is the mix for this fic.


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